Sir, you're making a scene
by Bookjunk
Summary: Post-Skyfall. Bond flirts with Q. Q rises to the challenge. Chapter 2: 'We're about to have sex. Call me James.'
1. Bad hair day

**Chapter One: Bad hair day**

Q is tinkering with his laptop when a pair of familiar shoes suddenly appears in his line of sight. Bond is forever doing that. Popping up at the least convenient moment and badgering him with questions. It is becoming quite the irritating habit. It is puzzling too, since the agent obviously has no actual interest in the important work being done in the lab. Resigned, Q waits for Bond to announce his presence.

'Your hair is looking particularly fetching today,' Bond booms. His is a commanding voice. It carries. Someone in their vicinity – Tanner, by the sound of it - sniggers, but Q refuses to dignify the remark with any sort of emotion except bland indifference.

'My hair looks the same as it always does. What do you want?'

It just so happens that today his hair is a tad more unruly than usual, which has got him bend a smidgen out of shape, but he'll be damned if he'll sit there quietly while Bond makes glib comments about it. Q recognises sarcasm when he hears it, thank you very much.

'Alright, your hair looks funny. As it always does.'

People seem to enjoy pointing the state of Q's hair out to him. As if he doesn't have a mirror at home. As if he doesn't try to keep it under control. It is simply unmanageable. The sooner everyone accepts that, the better.

'My hair is not amusing. Monty Python's Flying Circus is amusing. Your attempts at flirting are amusing. My hair, on the other hand, is not,' Q asserts.

'I think we can both agree that amusing is perhaps not the right word to describe my seduction technique.'

Q can practically feel Bond's delight. The man is a bloody nuisance with a smirk and Q is not going to indulge him. In fact, he is determined to pay the agent absolutely no mind. This conversation is over. He is busy.

'Personally, I find your _seduction technique_ laughable. It amounts to little more than being arrogant enough to believe that anyone you look at is willing to sleep with you,' Q counters. His hands fly over the keyboard while he silently curses himself. He keeps a wonderful, icy silence reserved for these vexing occasions but employing it seems more difficult than anticipated. Bond possesses a talent for getting on his nerves.

'It works.'

Snorting rudely, Q continues to type. Furiously. Looking up is out of the question.

'That speaks volumes about the type of people you consort with,' he retorts, sharper than intended. The secret agent leans closer. What in heaven's name is Bond doing?

'You're sounding a bit snippy there, Q. Does my flirting truly upset you that much?' Bond inquires, innocently. Most likely he's also batting those eyelashes of his. The spy knows how to utilize his assets.

'What I'm experiencing is a feeling of intense annoyance, Bond. And as per usual, your mere presence has provoked it.'

To indicate that the conversation is definitely over now, Q allows his fingers to hit the keys with more force than is strictly necessary. Bond, maddeningly, chooses not to take the hint.

'I want to remind you that this argument started with a compliment.'

'A backhanded, petty, sarcastic, hurtful, boorish, unpleasant…' Q grumbles, running out of adjectives before being able to finish his thought.

'On the contrary. Heartfelt,' Bond protests. Q can't figure out whether this is another callous joke at his expense. As a rule, Bond is not prone to cruelty. He is certainly not above mild mockery, however. So, which is it? When Q can't solve the conundrum, frustration causes him to lash out.

'Oh, do shut up, James,' he snaps. First name. Now I've done it, Q thinks. Failure to adhere to standard forms of formality _and_ politeness in a single sentence is inexcusable.

'Sir, you're making a scene,' a timid female voice informs them. It's the new intern, Erin. She is beautiful. Slender and symmetrical. Q expects Bond to be charming, but when the quartermaster finally tears his gaze away from the computer code, Bond is not being charming. The agent is not even looking at the woman.

Bond is brute force poured into a neat package. A weapon. A weapon, however, that tends to colour outside the lines, simply for pleasure. A weapon that is sometimes so bloody sloppy that Q can hardly believe it. Always needlessly losing or destroying valuable equipment. Always getting tangled emotionally when tangling isn't supposed to occur. A highly vulnerable weapon, thus, which should reasonably make him less effective. But, frustratingly often, these quaint emotional attachments don't impair Bond's performance. No, they improve it. It is unprecedented and most peculiar.

Q might not overly like the spy, but he can't help admire him.

His eyes are rather nice too.

'You seem tense,' Bond says. Q sighs and refocuses his attention on a problem he can actually solve. Not people. Never people. Least of all Bond.

'Must be the sex you're not having,' Bond adds.

Staring rigidly at the all-important screen, Q hunches as his shoulders stiffen. He is aware of doing it, but is nonetheless powerless to put a stop to his body's movement.

'You presume too much, 007.'

It is the best Q can come up with at such short notice. Undoubtedly, he will have a full arsenal of comebacks at his disposal this time tomorrow. Something something twilight years. Something something little blue pills. He tries not to let it bother him that his mind is so sluggish when it comes to Bond's taunts. Q's most excellent material typically comes to him while he's brushing his teeth the next morning. It's useless at that point, of course, yet still gratifying.

'Am I wrong?'

Q doesn't react. No, no, there's no need for that. I will not engage, he warns himself. This has already gotten dreadfully out of hand. How could Bond possibly know what a lack of intimacy over a long period of time does to a man?

'It does wonders for one's mood. Sex.'

There's a suggestion so blatant in those words that Q feels he has no choice but to address the matter. Unblinking, he meets James' eyes. They contain a challenge that does not go undetected. Around them, white coats bustle and computers beep. Certain phrases flit through Q's mind. _Inappropriate behaviour. Unprofessional conduct. _They should give him pause, but don't. Oh dear. Challenge accepted.

'Would you care to test that theory?'


	2. Like a hitman, like a dancer

**Chapter Two: Like a hitman, like a dancer**

The doorman stares at them as they board the elevator. They're silent all the way up. When they reach the door of Q's apartment, the key doesn't quite fit the lock. This is rather strange, since it worked fine this morning.

Q is a bit nervous. Alright, he is nervous as hell. It's been a long time and this requires physical contact and reading body language and he is afraid that he might have forgotten how either of those things work. There are beats to it and moves that have to correspond to the beat. It is like a dance and Q has no sense of rhythm.

Finally, he manages to stop fumbling and actually insert the key into the lock. There's a sound from inside the apartment.

'You live alone?' Bond asks, suddenly sounding tense.

'Yes, though...'

Bond shoves Q aside, draws his gun and kicks in the door.

'I do happen to have a cat,' Q dryly remarks, as a grey cat races past the door. Bond, looking sheepish, puts away his gun.

'You could have checked the doorknob,' Q reasons.

'Calm down.'

Q is calm. At least, he was until Bond told him to calm down. He does not appreciate the patronizing phrase.

'Why don't _you_ ever do that? This obsession of yours with violence… The door was open! Which you would have known if you had tried it. Next time, try checking the doorknob first before you go kicking in doors like some maniac.'

By now they have an audience. More doors are opening around them. Neighbours are peeking out.

'Sir, you're making a scene,' Bond whispers, imitating Erin's shy yet stern tone. Q tut-tuts the wreckage and mumbles something about 'testosterone driven idiots' before leading his guest away from prying eyes. Bond lifts the door and sort of rams it back into place. The grey cat wanders into view again, sits down and starts to lick his paw.

'Bond...'

'Call me James. We're about to have sex,' Bond points out. He slips off his coat and slings it over the nearest chair. Q swallows.

'James, this is Charles. Charles, James.'

The cat and Bond eye each other. Neither blinks. They seem to recognise something of themselves in each other. The similarities are numerous, Q realises. Both are solitary hunters. Dangerous. They always look like predators about to pounce. They also share an utter disregard for other people's opinions.

'Your cat's named Charles?'

'Babbage, actually. Charles Babbage,' Q teases, mocking Bond's usual greeting. The corner of the agent's mouth trembles. It twists up the tiniest bit. Not quite a smile, but definitely the making of one. Q surmises that Bond likes the joke. Well, he thinks, that was a piece of solid non-verbal communication and I picked up on it nicely. Perhaps social cues aren't so difficult after all.

'The father of the computer,' Bond states. Q blinks, surprised, which causes Bond to smirk.

'I'm not a one-trick pony, Q,' he chastises. He strolls over to the bookcase, dragging his fingers over the spines of a row of books.

'Alphabetised,' he mumbles. He sounds amused. The cat jumps up on the sofa and continues to watch the stranger who has invaded his home. Q can't help but share the feeling, though there is something thrilling about Bond being here too. About Bond touching his belongings.

Bond walks into the kitchen and suddenly Q notices how catlike his movements are. Lazy, controlled, supple. Strangely mesmerising.

'Something wrong?' Bond asks.

'You move...'

'Yes? Bedroom?'

'You're alarmingly casual about this,' Q says, pointing him into the right direction. Deciding to change the subject he has himself begun: not logical. Not logical in the least. He follows Bond into the bedroom. The spy picks up an antique calculator.

'Not my first time,' he remarks over his shoulder, setting the calculator down again, but not in the proper place. Q resists the urge to put it back.

'Well, _obviously_. From what I gather, you've bedded half of MI6. This is new to me, though. I pride myself on being an exemplary employee. Come in on time, do what my superiors ask of me. I realise this must sound rather odd to you, but…'

'Do stop talking,' Bond urges, starting to unbutton his shirt. With his practised fingers it doesn't take long. He takes off the shirt, sits down on the bed and unties his laces. Uncertainly, Q removes his own jacket and cardigan. He hesitates at his shirt.

Affecting nonchalance, he retires to the back of the bedroom and hides behind the open door of his wardrobe. He sneaks a glance at Bond. How is it possible that the man is all muscle yet moves with such effortless grace?

Ashamed, Q pulls off his shirt. He takes note of Bond's shoulder blades with abject jealousy. They are masculine and wonderful, whereas Q knows of himself that all his own shoulder blades do is pathetically stick out and make him look like a pterodactyl.

He sighs, watches Bond undress and flicks off the light. There's some sunlight filtering through the grey curtains, but it's barely sufficient. Q kicks off his shoes and shimmies out of his pants. Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the lack of light, he takes a few steps towards the bed. Bond is gone. No longer on or near the bed. The light is turned on again.

'What on earth are you doing?' Bond inquires. He is standing by the door, naked and armed.

'I'm...' Q stammers, embarrassed. 'I'm... better in the dark.'

'Nonsense,' Bond asserts, placing his gun on the night stand. Quickly, Q gets rid off his socks and briefs. He could hardly look worse without them.

'You're skinny,' Bond murmurs, sliding his hands down Q's back. Q can't help it; he cringes. Bond notices.

'Not criticism, Q. Merely an observation,' he assures. Then he gently removes Q's glasses and places them on the nightstand. Q cannot deny the ripple of anticipatory pleasure he feels at the thought of sleeping with Bond. That body. Those eyes. That voice.

Even aside from the possible professional ramifications, this is a particularly stupid idea, Q knows. His doubts lasts approximately one second, at which time Bond – in one fluid motion – pulls Q against him and all rational thought goes out the window.


End file.
